


Ritual

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-27
Updated: 2004-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-01 11:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every ritual has its place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

## Ritual

by Meghan

<http://www.livejournal.com/users/strangefancy/>

* * *

The heels of both shoes are more worn than the rest of the sole; he knows every pair of shoes in this man's closet bare the same worn pattern. Simple black loafers slip off with a whisper disturbing the quiet air. The pair are placed side-by-side on the transparent floor several feet away from the owner. 

Next are thin black socks so delicate they snag on his roughened fingertips. His hands roll the socks into little familiar balls and place them inside the shoes. 

The watch is harder to discard; the leather of the band scarred with small scratches, a small crack running across the face. These tiny imperfections are the only indicator of how important this piece is to the man who owns it, everything else that worn would've been disposed of. So he is stuck at an impasse: does he remove it or does he let it stay on? Taking it off would make the man more bare than removing all of his clothes would and Superman is not sure if he's ready for that yet. Naked means vulnerable and it's been years since anyone has seen this man vulnerable. 

His fingers hesitate over the clasp and he decides it's a sign to let the watch remain on for now. 

The tie is loosened and slipped off easily; the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned in a matter of seconds. The cuff links take even less time and they are placed to the left of the shoes, on top of the discarded tie. In the back of his mind, he recognizes the corporate logo on the cuff links but ignores the thought. He's here for this one thing and the past has nothing to do with it. 

His fingers hesitate again when he gets to the glove that covers the man's right hand. He's never been allowed to see what lies underneath the black leather and to seek it out now seems like an unforgivable invasion of privacy. He glances up at the man's face, at the watch on the opposite wrist, makes his decision and slowly removes the glove. For a second he strokes the plasticine that covers the mechanical hand, marvels at its strangeness, the alien look of the prosthetic. There are no wrinkles, no freckles, no imperfections on the surface of the hand. He x-rays it and grimaces when all he sees is the lead casing that the plastic is conformed to. The hand was specifically designed to keep him out; he had forgotten about this little detail. 

The monstrosity is removed and placed on the floor opposite the clothing. He'll do something with it later. 

The rest of the shirt is unbuttoned, the color of it lighter than the dark purple of the bruises it conceals. He can't stop his hands from tracing the shape of the largest bruise that stretches from the middle of the sternum to the bottom of the rib cage. Superman's hands won't hesitate or shake as he allows himself this consideration, this need to somehow erase the mark that mars pale skin. His weakness is a sin that no one will ever know about and somehow it makes the caressing worse. 

The shirt is removed, carefully folded, and placed to the right of the shoes. The pants receive the same gentle treatment and are laid on top of the shirt. 

Superman picks up a cloth from the small work station several feet from the head of the table. He squints, eyes blurring the figure and contemplates the man lying in front of him. It's an abstract evaluation, noting that with the exception of several dark bruises, time hasn't touched the body. No excess wrinkles, no age spots, no scars signaling that plastic surgery has taken place. Every muscle is lean but defined; hints of strength but no real indicator to the power that lies in this man's body. 
    
    
         Then again, it takes a strong man to willingly lose a hand in the process of battle with his enemy.  
         Superman puts the thoughts aside, clearing his head once again.  He walks to the end of the table
    

and uses the cloth to carefully wash the man's feet. He's sure to clean in between the toes, then sliding the cloth down the arch and around the heel. He doesn't stop, allowing the cloth to move up the calf, around the knee and thigh. He repeats the process with the other leg, taking time to do the job right. 

His detachment remains as he makes gentle swipes around the groin, hips, stomach. 

The remaining hand is next, each finger cleaned, each nail inspected. He turns the hand over and traces the groves in the palm with his index finger unsure which line is the lifeline and which line is the love line. It probably doesn't mater now; all of the lines are broken and fractured in several places, the passing of time being the only thing that could predict his future. 

The hand is let go as Superman moves on to the forearms, biceps and shoulders letting his fingers dig in ever so slightly to massage knots that he knew once existed. It feels natural, normal, and his eyes closing for a second concentrates on the memory of skin. The memory of home... 

His eyes snap open as he snatches his hands back. He is _Superman_. And this is only a consideration paid to his greatest enemy. Nothing more. He will not allow it. 

He moves on to the chest, giving pause at the discoloration that stains the skin. The bruise is dark and angry like a living thing and he tries to be gentle but every time he pushes in, there is a soft crunch or pop. The rib cage gives too much. This man never gave anything away willingly. It's all so wrong. 

There is a quiet sigh as he finishes this part of the job. 

Superman moves to the head of the table and absently drops the dirty cloth on the floor. There is another smaller table within arms reach and he picks up another cloth from it, identical to the one he just dropped. He turns back to the waiting man but circles the table several times, stopping near the head of the table, on the right side. His breathing becomes staggered as he touches Lex's cheek. It's not 'Luthor' today, not here. Not while he does this. 

His hand shakes as his fingers circle the round hole that rests against Lex's right temple. The feel of the burned skin is grainy, and when he inspects his fingertips, he sees gunpowder residue. The blood that flowed from the wound and down his check is crusted now and leaves a faint pink stain when it's washed off. Superman notices the trail but let's it stay as he washes the rest of Lex's face, skimming over the lips, nose and eyelids. The cloth becomes dark as it removes the small splotches of splattered blood. 

When he finishes, he takes one final look at Lex's face, allowing the dead man's features to come into sharp focus. He is done. 

It seems unnatural that it didn't take hours, days to accomplish the task. 

Superman steps back from the table, his joints suddenly weak. He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to tear at the Fortress walls until he bleeds blood as red as the blood that spilled out of Lex. Instead, he fists his hands at his side and closes his eyes. 

But he must finish this task, the last respect paid for his enemy. So he steps forward again, taking hold of the sheet that covers the table and pulls it over Lex's body, covering everything but his head. He pulls out the wrinkles in the fabric and runs his finger over the bullet hole one last time. 

The clothes are gathered, the hand ignored, as Superman prepares to leave the room, ready for the AI to do its job. The fire will be set as soon as he steps out of the room and be hot enough to burn through skin, muscle and bone, leaving nothing behind. 

Razing the earth of his heart, and coating it with salt, insuring that nothing will ever grow. 

Instead of leaving though, he turns back to the body. The kiss he lays on Lex's lips was unplanned. It had been a long time since he tasted river water. 

Epilogue: 

Clark Kent stood on the bridge leading into Smallville; he held a small box in his right hand. Behind his eyes, his head hurt and for a second, he considered getting into his car and driving back to Metropolis. He had been the sentimental one, not Lex. 

He leaned on the railing and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to do and no one was there to guide him. For a long time now his decisions had been based on the temperaments of villains and superheroes but that had been when every decision was a life or death one. This decision was infinitely simpler, and it was infinitely more complex. 

One thing was certain though. He didn't want the box sitting on his mantle or coffee table, reminding him of his failure. He had a lifetime of memories ( _Our friendship will be the stuff of legends_.) for that. ( _I love you_.) 

And those memories would never stop living in the back of his mind ( _I don_ ' _t_ want to keep things from you*, _Clark_.) reminding him that the past can never change, no matter how fast you can fly. 

He tried not to think of the ashes and the metaphor that could be applied to their relationship. Superman ( _Red_ , _blue and yellow_. _You will never stop being a momma_ ' _s_ _boy_.) destroyed them, not Clark. Was it presumptuous to assume that Lex would want to rest where they met? Years ago, the answer would've been no. 

He laid the box on the rail, contemplating the water. ( _Do you believe that a man can fly_?) From this height, it didn't seem like a whole car could sink to any sort of depth. ( _I hate heights_.) Then again, many things in this world deceive ( _Forever_ , _Clark_.) without meaning to. 


End file.
